“Why don’t we go in there and have a friendly drink or two?” one of the bounty hunters asked Frank.
“Not much of a drinking man,” Frank replied. He held up his coffee cup. “This is fine with me.”
“Good God Amighty!” the stage driver suddenly blurted out. “That’s Frank Morgan!”
All eating and drinking and conversation at the table ceased and all heads turned to stare at Frank in silence.
“Evenin’, folks,” Frank said easily. “Don’t let me disturb your meal. Go right ahead. I’ll just stand here and drink my coffee.”
“I knowed it was him!” one of the man-hunters said.
“Shut up, Gene,” one of the others said.
“Shut up, yourself, Hal. Let’s take him.”
“Fifteen thousand dollars, Hal,” the third man said, sticking his mouth into it. “Think about it.”
“Not here, Ben, not now. Too many people.”
“Fifteen thousand dollars!” the pretty lady at the table said. “What about fifteen thousand dollars?”
“See what you started, Ben?” Hal said.
“Yeah, boys,” Frank said with a smile. “Tell me about this fifteen thousand dollars. That sounds real interesting. What do I have to do to earn it?”
“You a real smart-mouth, aren’t you, Morgan?” Gene said.
“Forget it, Gene,” Hal said.
“The hell I will! I just don’t like you, Morgan. Come to think of it, I ain’t never liked you. I think all them books and such that was writ about you is all lies. I don’t think you’re a fast draw and I think you’re a damned coward to boot. Now what do you think about that?”
“It’s nice to know that you can think, but what would you know about books, Gene?” Frank asked. “You have to be able to read to know anything about books.”
“I can read writin’! I shore can. What are you tryin’ to say, Morgan? That I’m stupid?”
“In a word, yes,” Frank replied.
“What’s going on here?” the young woman at the table demanded. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“Shut your mouth, missy,” Hal said, without taking his eyes off Frank. “This is none of your affair.”
“Well!” the older woman huffed. “You certainly don’t have any manners, you . . . you hooligan!”
“Oh, be quiet, you old bag!” Hal popped right back.
“Old bag!” the woman shouted.
Frank sipped his coffee and smiled at the exchange.
One of the nicely dressed men at the table rose to his feet. “Now you see here,” he said to the bounty hunter. “You can’t talk to Mrs. Overhouser in that manner.”
“Go to hell,” Hal told him.
“Overhouser?” Gene blurted out. “What the hell kind of a name is that?”
“Are you really the notorious killer Frank Morgan?” the young woman asked, looking at Frank.
“I’ll admit to being Frank Morgan,” Frank replied. “But I’m not a notorious killer.”
“You certainly don’t look like a killer to me,” the young woman said.
“He ain’t nothin’,” Gene said, horning in on the conversation. “Big mouth, is all.”
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” the young lady said. “I was addressing Mr. Morgan.”
“Well, la-de-da,” Gene said, putting one dirty hand on his hip. “Excuse the hell out of me.”
“You’re excused,” she replied. “Now be quiet.”
“Say what?” Gene said. “Don’t you tell me to be quiet, you little piece of fluffl”
“Don’t you dare speak to me in such a manner!” the young lady said. “I’ll slap your face!”
“And I’ll knock you clear into the next room, you big-mouthed heifer.”
“You will do no such thing,” the well-dressed traveling man said. “You ... thug!”
“Sit down, Fancy Pants,” Hal said. “Before you get called out.”
“Out where?” the man questioned. “What are you talking about, sir?”
“That’s it!” the stationmaster said, standing up. “Everybody just settle down.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Frank said.
“Who cares what you think?” Gene came right back. “I sure as hell don’t.”
Frank stepped away from the wall and positioned himself to one side of the table, putting the passengers as much out of harm’s way as possible. He sensed that Gene was working himself up to pull on him.
“Hold it!” Hal said, stepping between his man and Frank. “No gunplay in here.” He looked at Gene. “You sit down and have something to eat, Gene. There’s always tomorrow.”
“Maybe I don’t want to wait until tomorrow.” He looked across the room at Frank. “How about you, Morgan?”
“Too many people in this room, Gene. Too much of a risk of innocent people getting hurt.”
“Then let’s go outside.”
“It’s too cold out there, Gene. You ever been shot in real cold weather? No. Well, cold weather makes the wound hurt real bad.”
“I don’t plan on you woundin’ me, Morgan. Now what do you think about that?”
“I don’t plan on wounding you either, Gene.”
“Oh?”
“No. If you’re stupid enough to draw on me, I plan to kill you.”
Gene cussed him, and Frank only smiled at the man. “You can cuss me all you like, partner,” Frank said. “Words just bounce off of me.”
“Bullets won’t, you bastard!”
“Gene ...” Hal said.
“Shut up! I’ve had it with this has-been. Draw, Morgan. Damn you, hook and draw!”
“After you, Gene,” Frank softly replied.
Gene grabbed iron.
Eight
Gene was fast, but not fast enough. The man had cleared leather when Frank’s bullets tore into him. Frank fired twice, the shots so close together they almost sounded as one.
Gene doubled over in shock and pain, and grabbed for the edge of a straight-backed chair for support. The chair gave way under his weight and the bounty hunter hit the floor.
“Anybody else want to get into this game?” Frank questioned, the .45 still in his hand, hammer back. A faint wisp of smoke leaked from the barrel.
“Not me, Morgan,” Hal said. “But it isn’t over, not by a long shot.”
“I’m out of it,” Ben said. “I wanna see about Gene. All right, Morgan?”
“Go ahead.”
Ben knelt down beside his partner for a few seconds, then looked over at Hal. “He’s done for.”
“Kill that son of a bitch for me,” Gene whispered. “Avenge me. Promise me you will.”
“I’ll get him, Gene,” Ben said. “I promise you I will.”
“Oh, I think I’m going to faint,” the older woman said, putting the back of one hand to her forehead. “All this violence is so upsetting.”
“I sure wish there was some pie for dessert,” the traveling man said. “Pie always settles my stomach after a meal.”
“You barbarian!” the older woman said to him. “How can you think about eating after all this violence?”
“’Cause I’m still hungry, lady.”
Gene groaned once and died.
Hal and Ben looked around the room. The stationmaster and the driver were standing with shotguns in their hands, the hammers eared back.
“No trouble, boys,” Hal said. “You have my word on that.”
“This is the most exciting thing I have ever seen,” the young lady said, wriggling her butt on the bench. “It’s so ... well, thrilling.”
“Somebody drag that body out of here,” another traveling man said.
“Stick him in the shed,” the stage driver said. “He’ll keep ’til mornin’.”
“How disgusting!” the older lady said. She looked at the younger woman. “And you’re just awful, thinking any of this was thrilling!”
“Oh, shut up, lady,” Ben said. “Come on, Hal, help me with Gene. We’ll tote him outsid
e.”
Frank stood quietly and reloaded while Gene’s buddies carried him outside. He tossed the brass empties into a trash barrel and walked over to the coffeepot, pouring another cup. Then he sat down on a bench.
“Are you goin’ to have any supper, Mr. Morgan?” the stationmaster asked, propping his shotgun against a wall.
“I’ll probably have a bite after a while.”
“I’ll get a mop and clean up the mess on the floor,” the stage driver said.
“I still feel faint,” the older woman complained. “I need to lie down and collect myself.”
“Pick a spot on the floor, lady,” the stationmaster said. “This ain’t no hotel.”
“I shall certainly post a letter of grievance to the owners of this stage line,” she told him. “The treatment I’m receiving is deplorable.”
“Mr. Morgan,” the young woman said to Frank. “I have aspirations of becoming a writer. I would like to talk with you at some future point . . . with your permission, of course.”
Crap! Frank thought. But he nodded his head in agreement.
Then he remembered the writer Louis Pettigrew, the little Boston author of all those ridiculous dime novels about him, and Frank suppressed a shudder. Louis had promised to follow him no matter where he went and write his life’s story. God, what if Frank had two writers following him around!
He looked at the very attractive young woman. Naw! No way could this pretty little thing manage to follow him around during his wanderings.
Oh, hell! Frank thought, as the young lady got to her feet. Nom she’s going to come over here and sit down beside me.
“Now just where do you think you’re going, Colleen?” the older woman asked.
“To sit beside Mr. Morgan.”
“Oh, no, you most certainly will do no such thing! Why ... the man is a craven killer!”
“Stuff and nonsense, Martha. The man protected himself, that’s all.”
“You come back here!”
Colleen walked over and sat down beside Frank. “Do you mind, Mr. Morgan?”
“Not at all, miss.” Damn!
Colleen sat down and said, “I’ve read all the books about you and Mr. MacCallister and the mysterious gunfighter called Smoke Jensen. Do you know any of those men, Mr. Morgan?”
“Jenson or Falcon MacCallister?”
“Either one.”
“Know both of them. Knew Falcon. He’s dead now. Killed by ambush and buried ’side his wife overlooking MacCallister’s Valley.”
“But Jenson is still alive, isn’t he?”
“Last I heard he was.”
“Who is that handsome young man with you, sir?”
Aha! She’s got eyes for Jeff, Frank thought. Good. Get those two hooked up and I’ll be shut of both of them. “That’s Jeff Barton. He’s from New York City.”
“Are you all right over there, Colleen?” the older, rather ample woman hollered.
“Of course I’m all right, Martha. You’re looking right at me.”
“Who is that woman?” Frank asked. “Kin of yours?”
“Oh, no. That’s Mrs. Martha Overhouser. She is a recent widow. Her husband died suddenly.”
“I’m sure he’s resting much better now.”
That comment blew right past Colleen. “She has a brother out in California. That’s where she’s going.”
“This way? Last time I checked, California was west of Denver, not south.”
Colleen giggled. “Oh, you silly! No. She has a friend in Durango. She’s going to visit her for a time. They haven’t seen each other in years.”
“I see.”
“They were friends in finishing school. Back in Massachusetts. She’s looking forward to seeing Mrs. Tremaine.”
Frank had just taken a sip of coffee, and almost choked on it. “Mrs. Tremaine?”
“Yes. Paulette Tremaine.”
Frank coughed a couple of times and cleared his throat. “Does your friend know what Mrs. Tremaine does for a living?”
“I really don’t know. She told me that Paulette’s husband died about fifteen years ago and about five years ago she moved to Durango and is operating a very successful business there.”
Paulette Tremaine got run out of Denver about five years ago, Frank recalled, hiding his smile. Mrs. Martha Overhouser was in for one hell of a surprise, for Paulette operated one of the West’s most notorious whorehouses, and had for just about fifteen years. After she wore out her welcome, among other things, in Denver, she moved her entire operation to Durango. As far as Paulette’s husband’s dying, he sure did that: She shot him five times after she caught him stark naked with another woman, on the floor of their fine home in the fashionable section of Denver. Paulette had about twenty soiled doves in her employ. Something for everyone’s tastes, so the story went.
“Martha is a big supporter of the Temperance Movement, Mr. Morgan. She is going to spread the word about the evils of drinking here in the West.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. And that’s not all.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Martha is active in a movement that would give women the vote.”
Hal and Ben walked back into the room, a blast of cold wind signaling their entrance. “We put Gene in the shed,” Hal said. “Don’t seem decent, though. Me and Gene been together for a long time.”
“He won’t mind being in the shed,” one of the traveling men said.
Ben looked at him, an ugly expression on his face. “Who the hell asked you?”
The traveling man shrugged his shoulders and looked away.
Mrs. Overhouser stood up and walked over to Colleen. She held out a hand. “Come, Colleen. I’ve found us a place to sleep for tonight. One that will provide some privacy.” She gave Frank a very dirty look.
“Go on, Colleen,” Frank said softly, his eyes not leaving Ben’s face. “I think there’s going to be some more trouble in here.”
“But ...” Colleen started to protest.
“Go on,” Frank said more firmly. “Jeff,” he called. “Come escort the ladies out of here.”
The traveling men, still seated at the table, rose and went into the small bar area of the stage stop.
Frank stood up to face the remaining bounty hunters. “You boys just won’t let it alone, will you?”
“You can’t get both of us, Morgan,” Hal said. “Just ain’t no way that’s possible.”
“Now wait a minute here!” the stationmaster protested, reaching for his shotgun.
“You touch that scattergun and you’re dead, mister,” Ben said.
“The same goes for you,” Hal told the driver. “Just back off and mind your own business.”
“What the hell are you talking about? This place is my business!” the stationmaster protested.
“And this is our business,” Hal told him. “That gunslinger standin’ right there.” He looked at Frank.
“Yeah. Me and Hal done talked it over. Gene ain’t gonna die for nothin’,” Ben said, his eyes never leaving Frank. “Me and him was close as brothers. So it’s root, hog, or die time. You understand that, Morgan?”
“I hear you.”
“We gonna make sure them women is safe away from stray bullets,” Hal said. “I don’t give a damn ’bout the men. See to that,” he told the driver and the stationmaster. “Go on, make yourselves useful.”
“You ready, Morgan?” Ben said.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not none at all.”
“Lots of lead going to fly in this building, Ben. And there are a lot of people in here.”
“I done told ’em to hunt a hole. They don’t, that there ain’t no worry of mine.”
“You’re all heart, Ben.”
“Huh?”
Frank watched Hal edge a few steps to his left. “Stand still, bounty hunter.”
“I got a better idea, Morgan,” Ben said. “Draw!”
Both man-hunters grabbed iron.
Nin
e
Frank drew, fired, and jumped to one side all in one smooth movement. His first shot hit Hal in the shoulder and knocked the bounty hunter back. Frank hit the floor just as he fired again. The impact with the floor threw his aim off, and his bullet struck Ben in the hip and the man collapsed to the floor.
Martha and Colleen began screaming from the saloon side of the stage stop, joining in with the shouting and cussing of the traveling men.
Hal crawled to his feet and banged a shot in Frank’s direction, the bullet thudding into the wall behind where Frank was kneeling on the floor.
Frank snapped off a round just as Hal dropped to the floor. The bullet knocked a chunk out of the wall.
Cussing loudly, Ben fired, his round missing Frank by several feet. Frank returned the fire and did not miss. Ben was slammed backward, a hole in the center of his forehead, his eyes wide open, a startled expression on his face.
Hal staggered to his feet, and this time Frank’s aim was on the mark. Hal fell back against the wall, his heart shattered. He slid down to the floor, his pistol falling from suddenly dead fingers.
Frank rose wearily to his feet and reloaded as the big room began filling with people.
“Damnedest thing I ever seen,” the stage driver said.
“I damn shore never seen nothin’ like it,” the stationmaster said.
“This is terrible!” Martha Overhouser bellowed. “I shall never ride this stage line again.”
“Good,” the driver told her. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks. You ain’t done nothin’ but moan and complain all the way.”
“Don’t you speak to me in that tone of voice, you lout!” Martha hollered.
“Come on,” Frank said. “I’ll help you carry the bodies out to the shed.”
“Why don’t you stay out there with them, the both of you,” Martha yelled.
“Ain’t she a sight to behold?” the driver said to Frank.
Frank said nothing, just shook his head.
Frank and the driver stored the bodies in the shed, and the driver said, “They just might stay here for several months, you know? They get good and froze, they’ll keep ’til spring.”
“That’ll be a lovely sight, for sure.”
“Won’t it, though.”
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